


the trouble with local newspapers and oral sex

by ClaireLily



Category: Pride and Prejudice & Related Fandoms, Pride and Prejudice - Jane Austen
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-02-13 16:11:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12987687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ClaireLily/pseuds/ClaireLily
Summary: Cunnilingus by an expert: extremely attractive man in his late 20s, single, expert in the subject, offers his services FREELY to CLEAN ladies who value PERSONAL HYGIENE. Please call or text the following number and ask to talk to BIG D about his mouth, and we can make arrangements.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> wildly au, modern setting, generally silly, smut included. my first time publishing smut, i feel really accomplished. beta'd by saintly PutItBriefly!

It is always like this.

London wears her out. So, as soon as classes are off and work allows her to, she returns to Meryton. Damn her, she has grown up in the country. Crowded tube stations and loud streets are something she has still not become used to.

But then, Meryton is _boring._ It lacks what every town in the country lacks: possibilities and choices. There is _one_ restaurant in the whole town, two pubs, and a small, miserable shopping centre. The food choice is pitiable.

And also, since Jane has moved in with Charlie, Meryton lacks her. Netherfield remains empty until August, while they live in their dreamy, romantic bubble in London.

She sighs. Perhaps Charlotte got it right—she refuses to step foot in Meryton ever again, ranting about how life in town with Billy is the best thing happened to her.  _Whatever._

“Well,” her father tells her, amused, when she admits her boredom. “It’s almost December, my dear. It’s dead around here. Isn’t it lovely?”

For a man who hates big towns, it must be.

“You know, Lizzy, you’re free to spend the weekend wherever you like. You stay in that god awful place and do whatever people your age do. Eat some ethnic food with Jane and Charlie and then drink irresponsibly.”

“Jane and Charlie,” she counters, woefully bitter, “are trapped in their bloody bubble of unicorns and rainbows. They _just_ don’t drink irresponsibly.”

Mr. Bennet laughs. “Ah! Bless youthful love!”

“And Charlotte,” she goes on, “is always busy. How can she be so busy? With what? Everyone is so _goddamn busy._ ”

“What about Charlie’s sisters?”

“I refuse to eat—ever again—some kind of alternative food—vegan burgers. Can you  _believe_ it?” And, she also refuses to hang out with someone who thinks beanies are ugly and stupid.

Mr. Bennet must be out of options—or interest—because he gives her his newspaper, and says, “Well, welcome to old people’s world. Enjoy it, dear.”

Bless her mother who cheers her up with her nonsense and brings her cocoa. It’s cold and rainy outside, and the big armchair in front of the window is really, really cosy. It’s late afternoon, she is buried under a pile of flannel blankets and the warmth of the cup is nice under her palms.

Perhaps, she is old in the inside.

She must be, because she laughs at the page of the local newspaper. There is the photo of the _Most Handsome Dog Competition_ winner, and it’s a noble Golden Retriever dressed as a gentleman of the past—cilindric hat, monocle, cravat, a tight coat and all of that. In her defense, it _is_ quality content.

She skims through the pages, and finds nothing remotely interesting. No names of people she knows pop up in the death announcements—good God, is she really that old in spirit?—and the ads are boring.

_Adorable tabby kittens up for adoption._

_Disgustingly stained couch for sale._

_Teenage girl offering private tutoring with math._

_Broken washing machine up for free._

_Cunnilingus by an expert._

Holy shit.

She bursts into a loud laugh.

She puts the empty cup on the floor, and returns to the ad. It’s printed at the bottom of the page, the font painfully tiny, as if someone was trying to hide it out of shame.

_Cunnilingus by an expert: extremely attractive man in his late 20s, single, expert in the subject, offers his services FREELY to CLEAN ladies who value PERSONAL HYGIENE. Please call or text the following number and ask to talk to BIG D about his mouth, and we can make arrangements._

The most hilarious part to her is _freely_ typed in uppercase. _Clean_ and _personal hygiene_ are reasonable requests, if not the most important ones, and they deserve all the capslock the world can give.

Who, in this godforsaken world, thinks that putting an ad in a local newspaper is a good idea when the internet exists, when Tinder exists?

A man—an _extremely attractive_ man—in his late 20s who offers cunnilingus and calls himself BIG D? An _extremely attractive_ man, expert in the subject, should not seek partners to submit to his talents in this disgraceful way. This _extremely attractive_ man must be anything but.

First, Elizabeth imagines an old, desperate pervert behind that, hoping to catfish some poor girls. The second picture she conjures is much more likely to the reality: a lanky, slimy teenager, who amuses himself by scarring the community with weird troll ads.

When she and Charlotte pulled telephone pranks, they were much more naive and less elaborate than this. A random number and weird voices were enough to make two children laugh. This is _annoying._ What if in the world there is truly a poor, lonely, clueless lady who hopes to sit on an attractive man’s face and have the time of her life?

Before she can actually think it out, her phone is in her hand, and her thumb is pressing down the numbers on the ad.

If her education pays off and she is to become a teacher, why should not she teach a lesson? And have some fun along the way?

 _Well,_ she thinks, the voice in her mind severe and scolding, _why don’t you stick to Minecraft servers or Tinder to troll people, like normal kids do? Do you have unresolved issues, dear?_

After a some seconds, someone picks up the phone. Giggles tickle her throat.

“Hello?”

Then:

“Hello? Who is this?”

A sigh.

“Hello?”

After the fifth _hello?_ the line is dead.

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

_[20:46] You wrote: Charlotte look at your goddamn phone_

_[20:51] You wrote: I need you!_

_[20:51] You wrote: I need your help and your wisdom_

_[20:55] You wrote: I’m going to call you until you pick up shitty phone_

_[20:57] Charlotte Wrote: cant answer, music too loud._

_[20:57] You wrote: Music too loud at 9? Where the fuck are you?_

_[20:59] Charlotte wrote: Having good time. It’s saturday night, people want to have a good time. What’s up?_

_[20:59] You wrote: It’s a long story go to the bathroom or whatever and answer my fucking calls_

Charlotte does not answer her call, but calls her one hour later. “I hope someone died,” she says, “because I can excuse eight missed calls only if they concern death.”

“Where are the fuck are you?”

“Some strange place Billy took me. There is a band, and the singer promised to strip, and—hey, why don’t you join us?”

“I’m in Meryton.”

“Well, is something wild up in Meryton?”

“It’s fucking crazy.”

“Tell me about it, so I don’t miss the strip. He is cute, the singer, cuter than Billy for sure.”

Elizabeth tells the story quickly, in a frenzied tone, stopping to take some breaths only when her tale starts to get strange.

Bizarre.

Grotesque.

She sucks in her bottom lip. “Well, the guy finally picked up the phone.”

“I hope you’re gonna get eaten out,” Charlotte says, her voice turning mischievous. “Or have you already—?”

“No! Jesus Christ, Charlotte, no! It was—God, it was—it was _Darcy!_ ”

“Darcy?” she asks. Noises from the other end of the line blend with silence for some seconds. “ _Darcy?_ As in, Fitzwilliam Darcy?”

“Yes!” Elizabeth cries in her phone, hot in face. “It was him, it was his voice!”

“And what did you tell him?”

“Nothing, I hung up!”

Charlotte has a hearty laugh over that. “Pity. He is hot, you know.”

Doesn’t she _know_ ! Elizabeth groans, brow dropping helplessly into her palm. “You don’t understand! Why the fuck did he put this ad on the Meryton newspaper? Why the fuck put it on _anything_ ? _Why_ write it ever _?_ ”

“Yeah, it’s strange,” Charlotte owns. “Darcy can get to eat all the pussy he wants, I bet. Pussy must be flying at him from every corner. He must be bathing in pussy all the time, drinking prosecco, or whatever the fuck rich people drink.”

It does not make her feel any better, but Charlotte speaks the truth. Elizabeth sighs.

“Come on,” Charlotte tells her, sounding almost sweet, “I’m sure there’s a good explanation. And if there’s not, and he really wants to eat some random girl out, I’d say—go for it and call it a day.”

“Don’t—”

“Oh, you should do it.  _Totally._ ”

“ _No,_ Charlotte.”

“Text him if you don’t want to talk on the phone,” Charlotte suggests. “Tell him you wish for his services and then report back to me.”

Charlotte promises she will call back the following day and hangs up, hurrying to enjoy the show in the weird place Billy took her, and Elizabeth is left with her phone and the that bloody ad.

And doubts.

And questions.

And— _sadness._

Charlotte jokes about it. It is all all bizarre, strange, and it is a laughing matter.

For her, it is not _that_ funny.

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

The weekend passes and a new week comes.

After work, Elizabeth returns to her flat. It is in Gracechurch Street—it belongs to her uncle, who now lives in a bigger place with his wife and the kids. Before moving out, Jane lived there with her. It is a small thing, not too grand, but one person is not enough to fill the space.

She tosses her beanie and scarf on a chair and hangs the parka, slipping free from her cold, wet boots. Then, she goes in kitchen for some coffee.

On the table, there is the Meryton newspaper.

It has been laying there, recipient of hard stares, for two days now.

Elizabeth sits around the table, sipping her coffee thoughtfully.

To dear Jane, she said nothing, because Charlie would know at once and it would be _embarrassing_ , to say the least—Charlie, just last week, told her Darcy is apparently seeing some hot redhead. Or something like that.

Charlotte, on her part, insists she should contact him and have some fun—whatever the outcome is, it will be something to behold, she thinks. Eaten or uneaten pussy, it will be funny.

It’s November, and Elizabeth has been thinking herself in love with Darcy for three months now—four, actually, since December is a couple of days away.

The last time she saw him was when Jane moved in with Charlie and they gave some celebration party—it was a dinner—for the event. _So awkward._ In his presence, she loses the ability to speak coherently, her mind blank. Funny, how she once thought _him_ too silent. That night, she talked to him _a bit_ , staring at her plate or at her feet, asking about his sister, his work, and other absolutely stupid things. Politely, he answered, he smiled to her.

It was _nothing_ , of course. Because he is decent enough to be kind to her, even if she behaved awfully to him.

Once, he was in love with her. Too bad that at the time she was was too high on prejudice, dislike and blindness to care about him. Yes, Wickham’s bullshit did not help, but she has come to think it was mainly her fault for being so fucking wilful and proud about her dislike for him. Hating him _delighted_ her. She laughed at him first, insulted him second. Good job, she even complimented herself, until the following day, when he gave her a long, hand-written letter, explaining why she was some kind of silly, vain girl.

Well, _fuck you Elizabeth_ , said then God, because in a matter of few months, in her mind, he became the perfect match for her—they met again, and he was so _lovely,_ so friendly and cheerful, and then, what he did for Lydia, for her family, _dammit._ Now that he hasfallen from her high throne of lies and blindness, all that remained was a thoughtful, silent guy who is essentially a great man, a man who feels deeply and has a compassionate heart and a sharp mind. Someone clever, proud and _good._

She has not seen him for a while. It is for the best, perhaps, because he is apparently seeing some hot redhead and eating strangers’ pussy on the side.

_Fucking hell._

Trouble is, not only is he dear, but he is so handsome. Between her spread legs, his face would even be more handsome, if possible. A picture her brain has no trouble to produce.

_Fucking hell._

The last orgasm she had was with her brightly fuchsia friend—eight inch of vibrating bliss—which needed a full recharge after that pitiable round on her sofa.

_Fucking hell._

She takes her phone. Her thumbs move quickly on the screen. _Clickclickclick._

_[16:18] You wrote: I am a clean lady, owning a bidet, who would like to talk to Mr. Big D about his mouth. I found the ad on a local newspaper._

She almost throws her phone away, after hitting _send_.

Instead, since it is an expensive thing, a gift from Jane, she puts it on the table. The coffee is cold now. She is not even afforded the time to heat it up, because her phone buzzes and the screen lights up _._

_[16:22] —— wrote: Thank you for reaching out to Big D, clean lady! Big D is very happy to know you own a bidet. Please, save this number under the name ‘Pussy Eater Express’ so you shall never forget about Big D._

It is _not_ Darcy. It simply cannot be. This irritating zeal does not belong to him _at all._ She taps on the profile picture, zooms it in, but it tells her nothing—it’s the picture of a fucking lake.

_[16:27] You wrote: is Big D still offering his services?_

_[16:29] Pussy Eater Express wrote: Indeed he is. If you wish to arrange a meeting so you can personally try the aforementioned services, please be aware it is possible to book an appointment this Friday, at 7 pm, in London._

_[16:30] You wrote: how do I know I will not end up in pieces in a plastic bag?_

_[16:31] Pussy Eater Express wrote: Big D is deeply wounded by your question, but understands the delicacy of the circumstances. The meeting will be in a crowded place. Big D is of the mind to have a drink before fulfilling his obligations, and you are free to choose to leave if you wish to, or if you do not find ‘Extremely Attractive’ a fitting term for Big D. Being a practiced individual, Big D understands the possibility._

_[16:32] You wrote: My question still stands tho_

_[16:34] Pussy Eater Express wrote: Big D likes to murder pussies, if you understand my meaning, but not the owners of the aforementioned pussies. He is a harmless Pussy Eater. He actually is very fond of pussy owners._

_Are you Fitzwilliam Darcy?_ She wants to type, but reconsiders, because, it _is_ him, it is his voice she heard. His deep, rich voice, faintly grumpy and irritated in tone. A grimace if grimaces were sounds. Never failing to make her heart rate speed up.  

_[16:38] You wrote: Then I’d like to fix an appointment._

_[16:42] Pussy Eater Express wrote: Big D is very pleased of your positive answer. He asks for your name, so he can write it down in his Pussy Eating Agenda and move to the details of your appointment._

_[16:44] You wrote: You can call me Libbie._

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

If this were an actual date, she could wear no panties whatsoever. Hell, for the promise of oral sex with Darcy, she could even deal with the frosty air of November without tights, going out with only a conveniently short skirt and with the hope that pleasantries would be quick.

_Alas._

She is not even sure _what the fuck_ this is.

So, she opts for a pair of black skinny jeans, a heavy red sweater, and simple ankle boots. Mr. Big D asked her for an identifying mark. Her precious yellow beanie is convenient—screw your stupid opinions on beanies, Caroline—so she pulls it on her head. Buried under that, a scarf and her parka, she is ready to go. A living magnet for hungry mouths, really.

She fumbles for her phone on the way out her apartment, and opens the conversation with _Pussy Eater Express_.

She is supposed to meet him in Piccadilly— _dear Miss Libbie, you can even hide in the crowd before meeting if you see it fit, or in the case you see something most hideous—_ right in front of _Boots,_ so then they can move to Soho for a drink to loosen up a bit and decide where to go for _his services_.

Perhaps, it was a big joke. Only that. Because it was _ridiculous._

The screen of her phone lights up.

_[18:13] Charlotte wrote: So, you going? Ready?_

_[18:16] You wrote: Just caught the bus. I am sooo nervous_

_[18:17] Charlotte wrote: Dont be, think that there is a good probability you get eaten out tonight._

_[18:17] You wrote: And what are the other possibilities?_

_[18:19] Charlotte wrote: The hell I know._

_[18:20] You wrote: Exactly. They worry me. Either I get some with Darcy, which tbh makes me nervous, or I get nothing, but we dont know what nothing is._

_[18:22] Charlotte wrote: I am like 99% you gonna get your pussy eaten tonight, so I would be happy if I were you. Billy never does it because i refuse to suck his balls._

_[18:22] You wrote: You dont understand. it’s Darcy. DARCY!_

_[18:26] Charlotte wrote: So? You gonna get some with the hot guy you used to hate. Big deal. It’s not like you’re in love with him or something._

Elizabeth quickly types _sorry, gotta go now,_ and ends it.

Her hands cannot stay still. They are cold, and they nervous. She wrings them together, then they set out to adjust the beanie on her head, then reach out to hammer anxious fingers against the glass of the large window of the bus.

It is not long before the monotonous voice from the speakers announces her stop.

In the end, she hops down the bus with her hands shoved deep in her pockets, fingers painfully closed around the crumpled ad, cut angrily from the page of the newspaper.

She walks in the god awfully crowded square, lights flashing from every corner making her faintly dizzy.

 _Boots_ is only a crosswalk away. She freezes.

Instead, she spies. What appearance does a Pussy Eater Express have? Tall and handsome, of course, she thinks, with a noble face and a pretty mouth. Look out for a red scarf, Pussy Eater Express told her. There are many people walking, going and coming, but no one is waiting in front of the shop. Some even wear a red scarves.

When she decides it is time to cross the street, nothing big happens.

She stands there for some minutes, looking at her black boots, while some irritated walkers dodge her, and others crash right into her.

What the _fuck_ is she doing?

It’s all Charlotte’s fault. She is the one who suggested this—for a giggles and shit—and it _is_ insane. A good laugh is not worth all this anxiety.

At least, Elizabeth tells herself, she is not in the Old People World yet, if she has decided to hop on the madness train.

Because she must be _mad,_ obviously.

Even if Darcy shows up, ready to perform his services on a random Libbie, what would he think of her? The girl who proudly sent him to hell after he opened his heart to her? _I changed my mind, now I love you, I love you so much baby, I would like you to eat me out like you were starving man in front of a hot hamburger?_

Usually, this is not how it works.

Jane and Charlie are the only people who got a second chance. Rare things, second chances. It will not happen to her. Not during this crazy evening, not ever—

“Er—Elizabeth?”

Her head jerks up to find Darcy looking down at her.

_Holy shit._

“Hello,” he says, walking a couple of steps towards her. “Good evening.”

“Darcy,” she manages, chapped lips parted in shock. “Hello.”

“Elizabeth,” he repeats, inclining his head. From his neck, hangs a dark red scarf, falling neatly on his broad shoulders. “It’s nice to see you—it’s been a while.”

“It’s you,” she mutters, amazed eyes on that stupid red scarf. Shock still lingers and prevents her to decide whether she is more relieved or worried, excited or nervous. One thing is sure: embarrassment is trumping on them all.

“I am sorry,” he says quickly, breath puffing out his mouth, then fading in the frosty air. “I am sorry, the Colonel brought me here telling me we had to meet his brother, but then he told me it was _you,_ actually, I was meeting, and ran away, leaving me here like some idiot.”

The Colonel is Darcy’s cousin. A pleasant, cheerful lad whose career in the military was so short, it won him a nickname. She blinks at his flushed face. “I am sorry, _what?_ ”

“Whatever thing it’s happening,” he says, mouth twisting in distaste, “it’s all his fault. I am so sorry.”

“So,” she mumbles, “it’s all his doing?”

“ _Yes.”_ He pauses, shaking his head. “I would never impose on you so. I do not know whatever he contrived, but,”—here, he sneezes—“I know he’s done _something_.”

Well, he is not wrong. She sighs.

He sneezes again—and again.

The tip of his nose is red, the skin on his cheeks deeply flushed. Her lips twitch. _Adorable._ “I think I can explain,” she says at last, “but—you’re dying on me.”

He turns even redder, if possible. “Forgive me.” With an odd gleam in gaze, he looks at her, half-lidded eyes and and full lips curved. “It’s quite cold and it looks like I am free for the evening. Would you like something to drink? It’s on me, of course.”

“Oh—yes, that would be nice, thank you.”

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

It is a cosy and warm place he chooses.

She is grateful it’s not a full glamourous lounge bar or something like that, because, while he is dressed nicely—all suited-up, necktie and all of that—her yellow beanie would be inappropriate for the occasion.

She snatches it off her head anyway.

“Well,” he says, studying the menu, “It would be the time for an _aperitivo,_ but I can’t find in me the health to drink something that is not hot. I think I’ll go with tea. Feel free to drink whatever you like. Don’t mind my old man’s habits.”

In the end, she too chooses tea.

“So,” he begins, a long sigh on his lip. “Has the Colonel annoyed you? Nagged you to meet here without telling you I would be here?”

“No,” she replies. It is even worse than that. “It’s a long story. And, honestly, I have no clue if the Colonel has something to do with it.”

“ _Of course_ he has.”

They are sitting on a small table in a warm corner, away from the window. The puffed cushions of the benches are so nice. It’s _all_ so nice.

She can chew off the skin from her lips all she likes, but it does not change the fact she has some explaining to do. It’s a shame to ruin the niceness. She will be remembered by him as The Thirsty Girl Who Answers Weird Ads About Cunnilingus (On Local Newspaper).

“God,” she cries, grinding her palms against her eyes. “It’s a mess!”

He hums, eyebrows pulled tightly into a severe expression.

“Here,” she mutters, shoving her hand in the pocket of her parka discarded on the bench. Her fingers rub against the rough paper, then work carefully to smooth it out. When she hands it to him, her eyes refuse to look at him. “Here it is.”

Confusion wrinkles his brow, and he sets to read the tiny piece of paper.

Tea arrives, and he is still reading.

She pours hot water into her cup, and he is still reading.

Awkwardly, she does the same for him, and he is still reading.

“This _thing,”_ he says quietly, finally raising his gaze to her, “is not mine. I don’t think I would ever write something like this and put it on a newspaper.”

Elizabeth dumbly drops the sugar into her tea. “Yes, I imagine so.”

“That _dumbass,”_ he groans, gripping the ad so tightly, his knuckles turn white, “it was that dumbass, the Colonel, I know it, I am certain. I never—Good Lord, I never wrote this stupid thing, even if it’s _my_ telephone number on it.”

“I know.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I know it was your number,” she admits, cheeks on fire. “Because I called, and you answered.”

“ _You_ called me?”

“We didn’t talk,” she is quick to point out. “I called for—God, don’t think I had in mind to answer that ad—I called because I found it on the local newspaper, and I thought to give some naughty kid a lesson, because _really,_ what person sane in the head would write it, and then, it was _your_ voice—”

He squints at her, mouth parting. “Oh! This is why I received so many strange calls. People kept calling and hanging up on me. Some even _giggled,_ then hung up. I shrugged them off as rude people with too much time on their hands.”

Elizabeth is tempted to laugh. “How many did you receive?”

“Not many,” he murmurs, looking down at his tea. “Six or seven, I think. No one truly spoke.”

“So are you sure your cousin is behind this?”

“Well, yes indeed. For the last few weeks, he has been using my telephone because he could not play some stupid game on his. I always found fiddling around him with my phone, doing this or that.” His mouth sets into a tight, deadly line. “My trust is obviously misplaced.”

The line of the conversation is not that bad. He may even walk back home with a decent opinion of her. She sips her tea, the warmth in her throat relaxing and soothing her nerves.

He, too, is finally drinking. “Where have you found the ad?”

“On the local newspaper of Meryton.”

“Ah.”

“You know,” she says, cheerful and light in tone, “the Colonel is not a great prankster mastermind. The Meryton local is really a small, and the only ones who bother to read are the folks living in the area. If he published it on a bigger one—or, God forbid, some obscure place on the internet—he might have more success.”

 _Clink._ The cup of tea tinkled against the saucer when her put it down. His fingers, wrapped around the handle, were stiff. His expression, a grimace. “You are mistaken, I believe. His choice was actually deliberate, and definitely harming.”

“Oh?”

He goes from icily grave to flushedly grave in less than a blink a an eye. “He delights in taunting me, that idiot. Do you remember—?” He clears his throat, eyes moving away, to some point over her shoulder. “My crush on you, do you remember? I told him about that, and it was a great, _great_ mistake, because I will never hear the end of it. Not until my last breath.”

The tea is burning in her throat. But, her whole body is burning. His past feelings for her have been demoted from _ardent love_ to _crush._ How fucking flattering. There it is, the last bit hope completely crushed. She can only say, “I am sorry.”

“I’ll talk to him,” he says firmly, more than himself than to her. “It’s unacceptable.”

She mutters something, and that’s it. She just wants to flee, but there is so much tea left, and she already counts herself as a mad woman, what good a crazy dash could do? Instead, she sips her tea again, slowly. _Crack._ Her heart is a bit broken.  

“I don’t understand,” he rumbles, some minutes later. “I don’t understand how this came to be.”

“The Colonel.”

“No, no, _that.”_ He gestures at the empty space between them with a jerking hand. “What I mean, is that I don’t understand how you came to be here to meet the guy who wrote about—who offered his services. You didn’t talk on the phone, you said.”

Oh, what a big mess. She has no wishes to go over her silliness again. “Look at the texts in your phone—you got it?”

After some minutes of frowning at the giant screen of his phone, he says, “There’s nothing.”

“Try _WhatsApp_.”

“I never use it.” He taps quickly on the screen, and his eyes widen. “ _Oh._ Libbie? With a cat wearing sunglasses as profile picture?”

“Yeah.”

“You own a bidet?”

Perhaps a crazy dash in the night is not that bad. “Yeah.”

“Ending up in a plastic bag?” Then, he laughs. Granted, it is a quiet, low laugh, but it is one. “Murdering pussy?”

It’s just so odd so hear him say _murdering pussy._   _Cunnilingus_ would be more fitting for him, because it’s such a serious word. It does not help his lips glimmer with the tea he drank, and his mouth is still curved. What is so funny? Damn him! She looks down at her lap, her fingers pink with cold, her face red with embarrassment.

“Elizabeth?”

Damn the Colonel, damn Charlotte. Damn him.

“Elizabeth.”

“Sorry,” she murmurs, daring steal a quick glance at him. “I am sorry. Woolgathering. Something like that.”

There is the soft _click_ sound of the phone screen lock. “Why on earth texting the number, after finding out it was me?”

“Because it was _absurd,”_ she rushes to say. “I couldn’t believe it was _you,_ of all people, offering to eat random people’s pussies.”

“Understandable.”

“Not that I don’t think you don’t eat pussy in your spare time, because, well, if you do, then it’s a _great thing_ , but the issue to me is the ad, and the wording and capslock, and—well shit, there’s nothing evil even in that I guess, as long as no one gets hurt or scarred for life.”

“So you come here,” he interjects, in such an irritating way, “with the idea I might show up and offer such services to you?”

 _“No,”_ she breathes out, “not _you_ to _me_ , not services, but not you—or maybe yes, _you,_ but I didn’t know what to think, I was only bloody curious.”

His eyebrow arches. “So,” casually, he asks, “you had no hopes to be supplied with Big D’s services?”

Fantasies, yes. Hopes, no. “No,” she groans, not caring anymore which colour she is now. She could be bright green, for all she cares. “No, not really.”

“Ah.” He sips his tea, shrugging at her. “All the better. No disappointment. However, I am free for the evening. If you were suffering from disappointment, I could be of help.”

Was he laughing at her? Is it laughing matter to _everyone_ ? She turns away from him, her cold, shaky fingers slipping from her cup.  _What a joke,_ Lydia would say, in her shrill voice. _Y’all assholes._

“Elizabeth,” he bids, voice now somber. “I would never impose on you. Forgive me, I was joking. It’s not my forte, you know.”

She wants her share of fun too. It is unfair only others can have a good time. Chin up in the air, she looks back at him. “Oh, too bad you were joking.”

“Sorry?”

She shrugs her shoulders, lips moving to form a pout. “Well, it’s true I had no hopes to be supplied by certain services, but I am not one to refuse orgasms when offered. Orgasms are delightful, don’t you think?”

Surprised eyes squint at her. Good, she thinks. His dumb face _is_ funny.

He is stroking his chin thoughtfully. _“Well.”_

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

When Jane moved out, Elizabeth got some of those LED lights on a thread—those like the ones people used for Christmas on their house, to blind the neighbours, minus the christmas-y colours—and hung them _everywhere._

Around thresholds, on some windows, and even on the ceiling. Jane has never liked them, but Elizabeth thinks they are so whimsical and funny.

She looks at the ceiling. The tiny lights shake and quiver, fading into the dimness. She squints and the glimmering dots. There are tears in her eyes.

It’s because Darcy’s tongue is inside of her.

She doesn’t know if it’s because she thinks of him as her True Love or shit like that, or because he is actually really good at this, but there is something in the way his lips and tongue move that reduce her hips to a quivering mess underneath his forceful fingertips.

Her own fingers are not any gentler. She curls them in his hair, small fists tugging and pulling, _poor man_ , to demand more and more. Because he is _so_ good. And she is _so_ close.

His tongue slips from her and instead he lays it flat against her flesh, dragging it all the way up. His lips, then, close around _that_ maddening spot, and the lights flash behind her closed eyelids, not in her flat.

She whimpers against the warmth of his parted mouth, her back lifting from her sofa and spine arching under the intense release that thunders through her body.

It is a couple of minutes before the glorious dizziness disappears. Elizabeth opens her eyes again, but it’s not the lights hanging from her ceiling she wishes to see. Darcy, kneeling at the foot of her sofa, still between her legs, his cheek laying on her thighs—that’s a piece of work.

“How good you look.”

He stirs, shifting away only a bit. With a bewildered face, he laughs softly. “ _You_ look good.”

She hums, slumping further in the sofa, and stretches her legs on the coffee table, her panties hanging from her ankle. She does not trouble herself to close them. Darcy seems hardly bothered by the fact she is comfortably resting with her private parts on his nose. _“Well,”_ she says, on a sigh. “I also feel quite good.”

“I am glad.”

Would an encounter designed for this end quickly? Should she return to some decency and let awkwardness run free? Would Mr. Big D politely bow and leave her?

Except, in her defense, it’s _not_ one of these encounters. On their way to her flat, they talked. A bit, but still. She, all embarrassment and incoherence, thanked him for the kindness he showed to Lydia. He, all grimaces and red cheeks, said he didn’t want her gratitude, and it was the right to do to atone for his past.

It _was_ awkward, but at least, they reached a common ground. She nagged him and he said he does not like gratitude. When she mentioned her god awful behaviour towards him, he shrugged.  

A thought drills into her brain, disturbing the post-orgasm bliss in a most rude manner. “Wait, what about the hot redhead?”

“I beg your pardon?”

She cannot find the strength to sit up, even if her heart is now racing. “The hot redhead you’re going out with. Charlie told me.”

He grimaces. “It’s Charlie.”

“What?”

“Well, the Colonel—always him, unfortunately—ran into me and Charlie when we were out for a beer and made comments about me always hanging out with a hot redhead. Charlie is too pure to understand he was teasing him. _Hot Redhead_ is how Charlie is saved in my phone”

“Oh.” Elizabeth wants to laugh in delight, but chooses to feel silly instead. “Make yourself comfortable, then.”

“Hmm. I am quite comfortable here.”

She laughs, spying him from half-lidded eyes. She has a hard time believing him. He is sandwiched in the tiny space between her sofa and coffee table, trapped between a pair of legs. What a sight it must be. She, disgracefully naked from waist down—but with socks—and he, suited up and kneeling with little dignity on the floor. “Are you, now?”

His cheek rubs on the skin of her leg. “Yes, you are soft.” Then, on the inner part of her thigh, he presses soft kisses that stray dangerously upwards. He licks some wet spot there. “And sweet.”

She flushes.

Darcy seems willing to go for a second round. His palm presses flat against her thigh, spreading her legs wider, while he buries his face _there_ again, mouth open and wet and ready again.

She has no complaints. Not one to turn down orgasms, is she?

This time, he is less gentle and more frenzied. His tongue is quick and unmerciful. Gone are the long, sweet strokes she so appreciated. But this, this was no less pleasing. Actually, his mouth, mad and ravenous, is like storm, a warm whirlwind crashing onto her, shaking her to absurd heights. He sucks and laps and sucks again, fast and hard and steady, unmoved by the helpless bucking of her hips, by her foot pressing into his bent back. Unmoved by whimpers and cries.

His name, rippled from her as if it were a oath to the heavens, however, stills him.

“Elizabeth.”

Agonised, she looks down over her crumpled sweater, to find the intense grey of his eyes staring at her. She would be crossed, incensed even, to be so rudely interrupted, but, _really,_ how can she?

“Elizabeth,” he rasps, with that pretty, full mouth of his, “May I kiss you?”

She would like to point out he has been kissing her for a good time by now. But no, it’s the lips on her face he is desiring.

They have _not_ kissed. To set the mood, when they came to her apartment, he pulled the yellow beanie from her head, swept her hair aside, and planted some delicate kisses on her neck. But she was so— _enthusiastic,_ they were not necessary. He’s been eating her out like crazy for one hour, and they have not even even kissed!

A laugh bubbles in her throat. She opens her arms and nods.

He climbs on her body in a heartbeat and crushes his mouth against hers, open and wet and hungry.

She hums at his tongue stroking hers, so lovely, as her hand curls on his hot cheek. Why have they not kissed before? It has been the main subject of her most innocent fantasies, and was still an important element of those fancies born on that sofa, as her fuchsia friend worked its magic on her.

Her arms fling about his neck, fingers ending up gripping the fancy material of his jacket. Even her legs are of the mind to hug him tightly, and wind up around his middle. She kisses him with abandonment, pressing her nose in his cheek and pulling him closer to her.

Whimpering, she rocks against his hips.

Darcy is so kind in noticing this and wastes no time, slipping his hand between her legs, making her very happy.

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

It gets late quickly.

After the third orgasm, Elizabeth kind of doesn’t care.

She notices only because her stomach makes an unholy noise.

She is curled up into a ball, buried under a heavy flannel blanket, snug and cosy against Darcy’s side. Dazed, mind blank, pleasure still tingling under her skin—all of that. After he went down on her a third time, she felt it was time to rest a bit. Her eyelids are heavy and her belly aches. Too much for someone who has not got it in a while.

“You’re hungry,” he says surprised, as if it were some amazing fact.

She presses her nose in his shoulder. He smells so good. “Yes. There’s nothing in the fridge, though. Still have some growing up t’do.”

He shifts away and sighs, long and deep. “Perhaps, I should go.”

“What? Where?”

He squints at her. “Home?”

“Oh, right, yes.” There is a joke on the tip of her tongue, about how _he_ ate enough to be full, but she keeps it to herself. She scrunches up her face. “Well, yes. Are you hungry?”

“A bit,” he admits, awkwardly. With no jacket and tie, he looks oddly vulnerable. “It’s late.”

“Lemme just put on my jeans,” she says in haste, bones cracking in protests when she sits up. “There’s a Turkish restaurant around here, we can grab some kebab and eat it here.” Also, there is a pharmacy with a vending machine, and she could grab some condoms. _Just in case._

“Kebab?”

She jumps to her feet, the blanket wrapped around her hips to cover her bare legs. “It’s good, they fill up the box up with chips and sauce, it’s otherworldly, trust me,” she rants, voice strained. “I mean, it’s on me. For your kind— _services._ ”

His head drops on the back of the sofa. “Elizabeth, it’s unnecessary.”

Out of nowhere, she nervous. She laughs. “Nonsense! I insist! You’ve been very kind.”

“No,” he replies, weary in tone, “I have not been.”

With a sense of dread creeping up her ribs, she sits back down, looking at him. Her bubble of orgasms and kisses is bursting. Has she forgot it is very strange, _absurd,_ they did this in the first place? That he was not supposed to spend more time with her? Some good oral doesn’t mean they are a couple. She should know this, she is not daft.

His gaze moves from the lights on the ceiling to her. “I’m sorry. Thank you for your kind offer, but I should go. I’ve been imposing on you too much, I fear, and I am hardly presentable now.”

“No!” she cries. It is positively cringy and desperate, but her dignity has been lost when her foolishness forced a joke to become reality. “Not imposing, that’s not true! And, you’re so handsome, you’re perfectly presentable—”

He faintly colours at the compliment, but shakes his head. “No.” He begrudgingly gestures at his lap. “I am not.”

“Well then,” she says, matter-of-factly, “that’s an issue that can be solved without much trouble.”

Horrified, he jumps away from her hand, already aiming at his thigh. “For God’s sake!” He must be aware of rude he is, because a sigh ripples from him when he glances at her. With agonising lines on his face, turning his perfect grey eyes into a clouded gaze, he says, “I am only human, Elizabeth.”

She bites her lip. How could he be so unguarded when he devoted himself to her and so goddamn shy when it was his turn?

“It’s difficult,” he mumbles. He rubs his palms on his face. “I don’t understand what’s going on, what’s got into me that led me here.”

She swallows down the swelling anxiety, and tries again. “You took pity on me,” she says, softly. “You may not like gratitude, but I’m going to offer it anyway, because you’re such a good, kind guy.” Her hand touches his chest. When he doesn’t shy away, she dares to lean closer, lips venturing to press a kiss against his jaw. “Let me…”

Wordlessly, he lets her.

Soon, his pants hang open and her hand wraps around his erection. Elizabeth tries to match her kisses with her touch—soft, delicate, sweet. She does not wish him to skitter away.

Darcy sighs.

She flings the blanket away, caring little for modesty. Like this, something far grander can be achieved, but better not to think about it now. Instead, her mouth moves to his ear. “Tell me what you like.”

With a groan, he turns to her, a face so foreign to what she is used, it is enchanting. His head falls on her shoulder. “You’re perfect,” he mutters. “You’re perfect, Elizabeth.”

Before she can reply with something, crack out a flattered laugh, or tear up in a fit of sentimentality, he reaches for her. Warm fingers slide onto her neck, curling around the nape. He kisses her deeply, with no reserve, forcing her eyes shut and her hand still.

In no time, he is laying on the couch and pulling her down with him. He is still determined to devour her mouth, which makes her tumble on his body with little grace. He cradles her face in his palms, and so close, she feels every breath shaking in his chest. “It’s no gratitude I want,” he admits, voice rough and eyes pained, “Everything I did—it was for you, only for you. I can’t bear to see you unhappy.”

His name rises on her tongue, but he will _just_ not let her go, returning to her mouth again and again. He is _lost_ , she thinks with a thrill of excitement, lost and wild and tender. She braces on her knees, open an cradling his sides, and lifts from his body, one hand open and splayed next to his head. Finally, the other hand is free to reach down and wrap around him. He deserves all the orgasms in this world, really.

In his lust, he still gnaws at her, hands forcing her to bend on him, his greedy mouth always seeking hers. She swallows his whimpers and moans, tasting him thoroughly, until the moment his hips grind violently into her hand. He shudders with the force of his release, holding her tightly, face buried deep into her neck.

Since compassion is one her best virtues, Elizabeth allows him to recover from the glory. “Well, look at you.” She grins down at his red face, combing some slightly sweated hair away from his brow in a wave of affection. “Now, it wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“No, definitely not,” he owns, the grey in his eyes glimmering and intense. But, his smile grows shadowed, melancholy lingering, threatening take over the bliss. “The bad thing, Elizabeth, is that I still love you. I am only human, I can only bear so much. It was wonderful, but _so_ very bad for me.”

She blinks. Some stupid tears are stinging her eyes.

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

_[09:04] Charlotte wrote: Spill the tea._

_[10:31] You wrote: What do you want to know_

_[10:32] Charlotte wrote: Did your pussy get eaten?_

_[10:34] You wrote: Yep eaten for good_

_[10:36] Charlotte wrote: Spill the goddamn tea Lizzy_

_[10:38] You wrote: It was Darcy_

_[10:38] Charlotte wrote: Well damn congrats_

_[10:39] You wrote: Thanks_

_[10:40] Charlotte wrote: Was it good?_

_[10:42] You wrote: Sooo good. Had to request the Dick Express too, so good it was_

_[10:42] Charlotte wrote: You sluuuut_

_[10:42] Charlotte wrote: Told ya you wouldn’t end up in pieces in a plastic bag_

_[10:43] You wrote: I also decided to present mutual exclusivity application. He is bound to eat my pussy for the rest of his days now. No more ads on the Meryton local. I am contractually bound to his dick too, but tbh I dont mind_

_[10:45] Charlotte wrote: What_

_[10:48] You wrote: Long story but in short we’re in love and we both like oral very much. Gotta go now. Have to call Darcy’s cousin now. Good news: the bastard can consider himself free of any trouble. All is forgiven &forgot. _

_[10:49] Charlotte wrote: Wait what_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next, darcy's pov!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, i have no excuses. i hope it lives up the expectations. again, beta'd by PutItBriefly!

“Colonel!”

“Oi, big boy, what’s up?”

He is slumping on a chair in his office, phone in hand, smirking at the screen. Darcy strides to him. “I need my phone.”

“Hmmm.”

“I’m going to be late tonight,” Darcy says, impatience vibrating in his voice. _“Colonel!”_

His cousin holds up a finger, while the thumb of his other hand works awfully fast on the screen. “There, all done,” he finally says, handing him the phone. “Here it is.”

Darcy snatches it away. “You’re welcome.”

Poor Georgiana, he thinks, as his fingers fumble their way on the keyboard on the screen. She deserves more than dining alone, eating some Costco takeout alone while waiting for him. He types a quick text, promising to call her in few hours.

“Going home late, eh? Got yourself a date with your hot redhead?”

“It’s not Charlie,” Darcy replies, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s work.”

“I don’t know, man, you’re the boss here, just let your people do their job. You’re way too much into it.”

Darcy chooses to sit down, too, because he is going to be late anyway. And his head hurts. “It’s because I am the boss I must be _into it.”_

“I am not Georgiana. I know work distracts you like nothing else in this world. Out with it, son. Have you seen her recently?”

His temples throb. “Not your business, Colonel.”

“Are you still heartbroken?”

“Cut it out.”

“ _Aww._ As much as I think you’re cute, I also think you better get over her. It’s been a year, right? Get your shit together and move on.”

Darcy huffs. Everyone is so wise, these days, dispensing advice and telling others what to do. It is _easy_ to get over, move on, forget. Why is living his life as best as he can warrants so many loud, unwanted advices?

“I think you should sleep with her. Or, sleep around. Or, start doing some yoga. Anything to take you out this grumpiness we all love.”

“I am not grumpy.”

“You are. Most of the time. You’re grumpy _now_ , look at that face, God, you could frighten kids away.”

“My head hurts,” he mumbles, massaging his forehead. “Leave me alone.”

“Just be in good health for Friday after work, will you?”

Darcy narrows his eyes at him.

“Hey, you should thank me, I got you a date—”

“No, thanks.”

“—with my brother. Guess who’s back in town? We gonna show up, say hi, drink something and then you can spend the rest of your evening licking your wounds, wanking to your romantic fancies, or whatever you do on Friday night.”

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

Some days later, he is having dinner with Georgiana, at a decent hour for once, when his phone rings.

It is an unknown number. He mumbles something, and just let it rings, even though the shrilly ringtone gets on his nerves.

Georgiana looks at him quizzically. “You’re not getting it?”

“No,” he mutters, eying his phone with severe eyes. “It’s been some time now people just call me, say nothing or laugh at my face, then hung up. How rude is that?”

His sister seems worried, eying the loud phone on the table. “What if it’s an emergency?”

“It’s not, dear, trust me. Don’t worry about it. How’s school?”

The phone stops ringing only minutes later, after Georgiana explains all the reasons why she thinks she is going to fail her math test and why her Geography teacher’s long, shiny hair is so interesting to her. “I texted Jane today,” she then says, “I wouldn’t wish to annoy her, but I’d like to see her very much.”

Georgiana has taken a great liking into Jane Bennet. Since Charlie introduced the two girls, Jane has become a kind of heroine for Georgiana, with that all angelic goodness and kindness. Darcy shrugs. “If she’s free, I am sure she’ll be glad to see you—however, Charlie tells me she’s always quite busy with work.”

He knows Charlie and Jane are living in a little world of their own, heads over hills for each other. Charlie’s been turning him down often these days, always finding excuses. _My angel cooked me carbonara._ Or, even worse, _Jane picked up a whipped cream for tonight._ Always grinning like an idiot, surely more than it is healthy, with cheeks red and gaze dreamy.

Darcy is very happy for them. It feels like after his meddling and its disastrous consequences, the universe returned to its balanced state, every wrong now righted.

He is happy, truly. But there is a wicked, pathetic voice in him whispering that it does not mean it is _fair._ Charlie got the girl, and he did not. It is as simple as it is stupid, but it is not less a brutal truth.

One year.

No, more than that.

Going mad with lust for her, then the terrible thought that he might actually be in love, then _being_ in love. It happened so quickly, so intensely—first, it was only a pair of pretty eyes, then it was _her,_ simply her, with her zeal for life and impertinence, her sharp tongue and sweet charm. The worst is, he was sure she saw him under the same light he saw her. But those pretty, sparkling eyes and those charming smiles hid the opposite of that. A lesson learned in the hardest of ways.

What he also has learned is that hope is a tricky thing. He heard its seductive whispers: when she smiled to him at Pemberley; the glowing happiness on her face when he set foot in Meryton again, Charlie on side, ready to sweep Jane off her feet and ride in the sunset.

But he knows better, he must know better. He saw her grave face, her strained smiles, her gaze cast down when he was around. No more dinners at Charlie’s, if he can help it.

When Darcy reflects about it—and he tends to avoid it, these days—his feelings and his own hopes matter little. She _, her_ feelings, matters more.

“Hey,” Georgiana calls him, pulling him from his straying thoughts. “You okay?”

“Sorry.” When he sees her concerned face, he smiles. “I’m just awfully tired. I think the Colonel infested the office with his filthy germs.”

“You’re sick?”

“No, not yet anyway. If he keeps breathing on the screen of my phone, however, I will, too, get a nasty cold.”

Georgiana laughs. “He promised me to always wash his hands after touching your phone! He knows how germaphobic you are!”

“Oh, c’mon now, I am not so extreme,” he says dryly, but the corners of his lips twitch. “I don’t care what he does with my phone, but I don’t want to get sick for that stupid game of his.”

“It’s the most played game on the App Store! You should try it.” With her head cocked, his sister gives him one of those gazes, so very affectionate, so very dear to him. “Try to relax more, Fitzwilliam. Play some silly games on your phone, you’re allowed to take a break. You’re working way too much.”

Unlike the Colonel, Georgiana’s worrying is not irritating. First, it causes no headaches. Second, it warms his heart. “I am sorry, but it’s not forever, I promise. I am thinking to take a break soon and go away for Christmas and the New Year’s. You choose the destination, I follow.”

Her eyes light up and, he thinks, it’s enough.

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

On Friday, the Colonel drags Darcy out his office. Protests fall on deaf ears, and dreadful fits of wheezes inspire little compassion.

Plus, It’s a damn cold night.

“You always whine,” the Colonel _whines._ “Damn, don’t you ever get tired of it?”

Darcy pulls his scarf higher, chin and lips shielded from the unmerciful November chill. Since his first sneeze, Georgiana forces him to wear this damn thing, because he usually does not bother. Thank God it is a plain one. He knows the wardrobes in his house hide hideous Christmas scarves and obnoxious beanies. “First of all, I don’t whine. Second, I don’t get why your brother is so eager to see us tonight.”

“At least there’s someone who is not your hot redhead willing to hang out. Aren’t you happy?”

In a way, the eldest Fitzwilliam is the black sheep of the family. Spoiled rotten, lazy, always about spending Papa’s money here and there. “No, I’m not happy,” he replies, willing his tone to be grave, lest he get accused of whining again. “He calls me _Big D_ . Even _your mother_ calls me Big D sometimes.”

“I should starting to call you Big D. Not fair I am the only one who gets a stupid nickname.”

“Don’t you _ever_ —”

“I bet your clients would throw all their money to someone with such an awesome name.”

“Just shut up.”

They keep walking and Darcy’s mood does not improve. Even though Georgiana has started to be absent on Friday and Saturday nights as of late—all grown up, now she shyly asks him if she can sleep over at her friend’s house, and his heart saddens a bit—he likes the quitude of his home. Much he appreciates his cousin’s efforts to cheer him up—as if he needed it, really—the Colonel is exceptionally loud these days, and his brother is just terrible company in general.

Is he getting old?

Yes, indeed, he is already an old, cranky man—that is what the Colonel would say, so he does not ask. Wisely.  

“Okay, Big D, I am off now.”

Darcy stops, turning to him. “What? Off to where?”

“To grab my lovely brother—I am fairly sure he’d get lost without guidance. Too much time around the world, that lad. Just wait here a moment,” he says, grinning like a maniac, already dashing away. “Remember, don’t talk to strangers!”

Darcy gives a vexed huff which flutters in the air, then disappears.

The streets are getting crowded now. The flashing lights of Piccadilly Circus rise high, giving the dark sky a strange hue. He thinks that perhaps, he _is_ old. It just does not hold any appeal. The world is out, loud and lively and bright, and he is weary and melancholic.

It leaves a sour taste in his mouth.

The Colonel soon returns, finally, but with a strange face. His hands are not busy punching the air, swinging, being generally annoying. They are shoved in the pockets of his coat.

 _Great._ There is a grimace ready to take on. “What is it now?”

“Well,” he says, shrugging. “Looks like you’re gonna to kill me.”

“Why? Is your brother already in trouble?”

“Oh, no, bless his cocaine-addicted soul, he remains in Milan. No calls from the local authorities yet.”

_“What?”_

“Very well, Big D, put on your big girl panties and just get on with it. I never, _ever_ thought it would happen, but it did, so—off you go, big boy.”

“What? _—_ wait, where? _”_

“Okay,” the Colonel says, after a big deep breath. “You see, it’s Lizzy. _Your_ Lizzy, remember? Right in front of _Boots,_ freezing her ass off as she waits for you.”

This time, Darcy has no words.

“It’s a long story, but, well, looks like you have a date. What a coincidence!” The Colonel slaps his shoulder. “My, would you look at the time! I have to go now—enjoy your date!”

In a blink of an eye, Darcy is alone again.

He looks around, dazed and confused and cold. People bump in him, telling him to pay attention, one even tells him to go to hell, but—he simply does _not_ understand. How can he?

Across the street, the shiny white of the font _Boots_ springs to his eyes, the round blue of the sign bright and electric.

She stands in front of the big glasses of the shop.

Her head is bent, a ridiculous yellow beanie hiding her hair, and she is fixated on looking at her boots, hands shoved in the pockets of her green parka. Like this, she is so small, _dull_ even—a strange word to ascribe to her _—_ with a giant scarf wrapped heavily around her neck. Her shoulders, usually squared and proud, are small.

The thought crosses his mind: just go away, _leave her_. It is like a flash, stark and lucid, brighter than the lights fogging the winter sky above. He does not want to impose on her, to make her feel uncomfortable, to force her to smile to him. It is enough to look at her like this, from far away. That, he decided months ago.

As crazy as it is, however, she is waiting. For him, of all people, _if_ the Colonel is to be trusted.

In the end, he goes.

“Er,” he flounders, heart stuttering along, as he walks towards her. “Elizabeth.”

She jumps, as if she were a frightened kitty, eyes jerking up to him.

“Hello,” he tries awkwardly. “Good evening.”

“Darcy,” Elizabeth says, her pretty eyes wide. “Hello.”

“Elizabeth,” he repeats. The name forces the daze to disappear from his mind. “It’s nice to see you—it’s been a while.”

With a blank face, she simply says, “It’s _you_.”

“I am sorry,” he starts, words tumbling from him as panic wickedly grows. It is _painfully_ real. “I am sorry, the Colonel brought me here telling me we had to meet his brother, but then he told me it was _you,_ actually, I was meeting, and ran away, leaving me here like some idiot.”

“I am sorry.” She squints at him. “ _What?_ ”

“Whatever thing it’s happening, it’s all his fault. I am so sorry.”

“So,” she mumbles, “it’s all his doing?”

“ _Yes.”_ He pauses, shaking his head. “I would never impose on you so. I do not know whatever he contrived, but,”—here, he sneezes—“I know he’s done _something_.”

Damn Colonel. Damn his germs-infested fingers. He sneezes again and again.

Her eyes, of that dark hue which enchanted him, rise to him. “I think I can explain,” she says at last. Lips faintly pink with cold turn into a small smile. “But—you’re dying on me.”

His whole face heats up and he apologizes. Here it is—the spell working its magic on him, commanding smiles, commanding his heart. “It’s quite cold and it looks like I am free for the evening,” he dares, feeling almost dizzy. Definitely not the Colonel’s filthy germs. “Would you like something to drink? It’s on me, of course.”

“Oh—yes, that would be nice, thank you.”

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

Sneezes and coughs keeps plaguing him, but he does not die on her. It would be a shame if he did.

They end up in that cute place in Soho Georgiana adores. It is warm and lovely, with her sitting in front of him, so casually, hair a bit in disarray after she takes her ridiculous beanie off.

Elizabeth is adorable, much like she has always been, except for some odd quality in her voice, and an edge in her smiles. Her cheeks flush awfully often, but, he thinks, he prefers this _—_ whatever this is _—_ to that tensed, grave encounter at Charlie’s flat.

Actually, his health may even improve. It is all so _delightful_. Confusion is still there—how on earth did he end up with her?—but his nerves are not on the brink of crumbling.

But then, all of this comes to an end when she shoves in his hands a tiny, wrinkled piece of paper.

_Cunnilingus by an expert: extremely attractive man in his late 20s, single, expert in the subject, offers his services FREELY to CLEAN ladies who value PERSONAL HYGIENE. Please call or text the following number and ask to talk to BIG D about his mouth, and we can make arrangements._

He squints at the small letters. Not once, not twice, but three times he has to read those damn small letters before his brain twitches.

The ‘following number’ is _his_ telephone number.

A cup of tea is standing there, waiting to soothe his burning throat, but instead, he looks at her. “This _thing_ is not mine. I don’t think I would ever write something like this and put it on a newspaper.”

“Yes,” she replies. “I imagine so.”

His cousin was right. He _is_ going to kill him. Angry fingertips dig into the paper, as if it were the real culprit. “That _dumbass,_ it was that dumbass, the Colonel, I know it, I am certain. I never—Good Lord, I never wrote this stupid thing, even if it’s _my_ telephone number on it.”

“I know.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I know it was your number.” Again, she blushes. Again, she is adorable. “Because I called, and you answered.”

His heart quivers. Her voice, he would remember. “ _You_ called me?”

“We didn’t talk! I called for—God, don’t think I had in mind to answer that ad—I called because I found it on the local newspaper, and I thought to give some naughty kid a lesson, because _really,_ what person sane in the head would write it, and then, it was _your_ voice—”

“Oh! This is why I received so many strange calls.” The pieces of the puzzle seem to come together. “People kept calling and hanging up on me. Some even _giggled,_ then hung up. I shrugged them off as rude people with too much time on their hands.”

Elizabeth’s face lights up with amusement. “How many did you receive?”

“Not many. Six or seven, I think. No one truly spoke.”

“So are you sure your cousin is behind this?”

“Well, yes indeed. For the last few weeks, he has been using my telephone because he could not play some stupid game on his. I always found fiddling around him with my phone, doing this or that. My trust is obviously misplaced.”

He finally reaches for tea. Now that the mystery seems to be unveiling, he feels better. Still, some pieces of the puzzle are missing. “Where have you found the ad?”

“On the local newspaper of Meryton.”

Damn Colonel. “Ah.”

“You know,” she says, a smile blooming on her pretty face, tone vibrant. Oh, she is like that summer day in Pemberley, lively and bright and sparkly. “The Colonel is not a great prankster mastermind. The Meryton local is really a small, and the only ones who bother to read are the folks living in the area. If he published it on a bigger one—or, God forbid, some obscure place on the internet—he might have more success.”

“You are mistaken, I believe. His choice was actually deliberate, and definitely harming.”

“Oh?”

“He delights in taunting me, that idiot. Do you remember—?” He clears his throat. That, he dislikes remembering, and it must be even less pleasant for her. “My crush on you,” he mumbles finally, a sour taste rising in his mouth. A _crush,_ as if it were some trifling matter between schoolers. “Do you remember? I told him about that, and it was a great, _great_ mistake, because I will never hear the end of it. Not until my last breath.”

The smile slips. “I am sorry.”

“I’ll talk to him,” he says firmly, more to himself than to her. The Colonel has gone too far, breaching his privacy like that. “It’s unacceptable.”

What _the fuck_ did his cousin have in that empty brain of his? A prank at his expense, involving her, all for a good laugh? _How_ —? What is missing in that puzzle? “I don’t understand,” he rumbles, some minutes later. “I don’t understand how this came to be.”

“The Colonel.”

“No, no, _that.”_ He gestures at the gulf between them. It is _small._ This is what he cannot understand. “What I mean, is that I don’t understand how you came to be here to meet the guy who wrote about—who offered his services. You didn’t talk on the phone, you said.”

“Look at the texts in your phone—you got it?”

He obeys, and it does not help. “There’s nothing.”

“Try _WhatsApp_.”

“I never use it.” His thumb presses on the bright green icon on the screen. _WhatsApp_ shows a handful of conversations, so it is not hard to spot what he is seeking. The name Libbie—Lizzy—glows on the screen. “ _Oh._ Libbie? With a cat wearing sunglasses as profile picture?”

“Yeah.”

His frowns. “You own a bidet?”

“Yeah.”

“Ending up in a plastic bag?” The bubbles of the text tell an awfully strange tale. More oddities emerge: _Pussy Eater Express, book an appointment this Friday, harmless Pussy Eater._ His finger glides on the screen. A laugh escapes from him. “Murdering pussy?”

But he is met with silence. On the other end of the table, she is looking down.

“Elizabeth?” he says, the sight oddly unsettling. “Elizabeth.”

“Sorry,” she murmurs, looking at him. “I am sorry. Woolgathering. Something like that.”

He puts his phone away. “Why on earth texting the number, after finding out it was me?”

Her face scrunches up in something akin to indignation. “Because it was _absurd,_ I couldn’t believe it was _you,_ of all people, offering to eat random people’s pussies.”

Well, she is not wrong. Amusement tickles his lips. Are they really discussion oral sex as if they were talking of the weather? Have they _ever_ talked of the weather? “Understandable.”

“Not that I don’t think you don’t eat pussy in your spare time, because, well, if you do, then, it’s a _great thing_ , but the issue to me was the ad, and the wording and capslock, and—well shit, there’s nothing evil even that, I guess, as long as no one gets hurt or scarred for life.”

At the end of this pretty speech, she is so lovely, and the air around them feels lighter, like the sunshine that summer day in Pemberley. He wants to laugh with her. Warm flutters tickle his heart. “So you come here with the idea I might show up and offer such services to you?”

 _“No,_ not y _ou_ to _me_ , not services, but not you—or maybe yes, _you,_ but I didn’t know what to think, I was only bloody curious.”

“Indeed. So, you had no hopes to be supplied with Big D’s services?”

“No,” she groans. “No, not really.”

“Ah.” He sips his tea, which is now tepid, and his regrets surface. _Why_ hasn’t he dared to be like this, light and open, in the past, with her? “All the better. No disappointment. However, I am free for the evening. If you were suffering from disappointment, I could be of help.”

The answer to his question comes at once: because she shrinks, eyes downwards and silent. _Dull_ , like in front of _Boots_ when she waited for him. Like when they met again at Charlie’s. Because she does not want to laugh with him. Simple as that.

In his chest, his heart twists.

Has she not made that clear long ago?

“Elizabeth,” he bids softly. “I would never impose on you. Forgive me, I was joking. It’s not my forte, you know.”

It takes some seconds before her eyes rise again. When they do, they are glinting. “Oh, too bad you were joking.”

Darcy starts. “Sorry?”

She shrugs her shoulders. “Well, it’s true I had no hopes to be supplied by certain services, but I am not one to refuse orgasms when offered. Orgasms are delightful, don’t you think?”

He squints at her, dumbly, as he thinks that she is not serious, she cannot be. What is she saying? Much as he tries, reading her has never been his best skill. _“Well._ ”

Smiling, she asks, “Do you agree with me?”

“I do.”

“I didn’t come here expecting some action, you know.”

“No.”

“No indeed. But, if _you_ were of mind to offer me some services of such kind,”  she stares at him, flames in her eyes, “I am game.”

Oh, good God.

 _It is enough,_ a voice in his heart whisper, _it must be enough._ Only human, he thinks, he’s only human, because when she looks so cheeky, so teasing and blinding, he is weak, weaker than he's ever been.

“ _Well_ , Darcy?” she asks, arching an eyebrow. “Are you offering?”

“Yes,” he replies, the word burning in his throat. “Yes, I am offering.”

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

His bloody mind is blank.

Elizabeth knows that he had a role in her young sister’s affair. That does not help. Her voice, wary and halting, sounds too much like gratitude. A sorry thing, that is. It’s too much akin to a will bound by a debt, something that is not freely given, something due. He does not like that at all.

And, _Lord,_ how can _she_ be the one apologizing for awful behaviour?

It’s a good thing the bus finally reaches their stop, at the bottom of Gracechurch Street. On the third floor of a large building, there is her apartment—it is warm, not very large from what he can see, and smells of coffee and of some fruity perfume.

Once inside, he looks around, standing awkward and unsettled, as she flutters about, throwing her parka here, her scarf there, then maneuvering in the dimness with something.

Thousands of tiny dots light up everywhere, hanging from the ceiling, hanging from every corner.

“I think the lights on or lights off thing is terribly awkward, so...” her words fade as she walks back to him. She clasps his hand. In her eyes, those silly lights paint a starry sky. “Hello.”

With careful fingers, slowly, he cups her cheek, before sliding his hand upwards. He pulls that yellow thing off her head. Her hair is shorter than he remembers, and it is feathery light on his hand as he sweeps them away from her neck. There, he presses his lips. In her ear, he then whispers, “Hello.”

She laughs and moves closer, pushing her cheek against his. It’s soft and faintly cold. “C’mon.”

And then, she is guiding him to her small couch, all blushes and smiles, her quiet laugh smoothing, incredibly, any tension away.

She sinks on the couch before him, and holds both of his hands tightly. “Still offering?”

More than ever, he thinks, but words seem to fail him, so a nod is the only reply he has.

“Well, then,” she says, and he can see a grin, bright and cheeky. She slumps down, teasing and lovely and beautiful, with stars in her gaze. “By all means.”

Her tight jeans wrinkle when her legs move wide apart.

It is an awkward business, he has to admit. His long legs curl in an uncomfortable angle as he lowers on the floor, all crumpled and crammed in between the foot the sofa and the small coffee table. But, he is between her open legs. That small detail makes all the other complaints go ignored.

There is only his heart, loud and straining in his throat, and her hips, real and soft under his fingers. They fit _so_ well between his index finger and thumb.

Then, he moves in the middle, and finds the button of her jeans. Underneath, there is smooth, warm skin and grey panties, with tiny, happy bunnies smiling up at him.

She is more than cooperative, and the jeans soon end up in a sorry pile on the floor. Her ridiculous panties should soon follow, but he takes his time to savour the opportunity: his open palms slide and glide on smooth skin, all the way from her pink knees upwards, on her thighs, until they stop on the slope between her hips and waist.

His thumbs slip underneath the elastic band of her panties, where her skin seems to burn.

His eyes seek hers. “Still game?”

Elizabeth gives a faintly breathless chuckle.

If the small roll of her hips would have failed to send a loud message, what follows does not: it is her fingers hooking in her panties, shoving her panties down her lovely legs, and moving until they are out of the way.

Elizabeth slumps back in the couch, looking satisfied. “Still game.”

_Indeed._

He thought Elizabeth eager, before, but now, now, he realizes his mistake. Oh, how Darcy wishes to be in the right mind for this—to be a romantic partner, sensible enough to worship every bare inch of her legs before moving to to do deed.

But, she is not eager. She is wet, she is _impatient_.

And so, he bends his head between her legs, leaving soft kisses on her sex—gently, delicately, slowly.

She deserves nothing less. Devotion. Satisfaction. Pleasure. No teasing and no games. His mouth opens, and he drags his tongue on he slick flesh, taking a good taste of her.

Her fingers tangle in his hair, and her hips quiver.

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

Under his cheek, the skin of her thigh feels is soft and warm. In his mouth, there is still the taste of her pleasure.

 _He_ has made her come apart.

Darcy may go mad. That is, if he has not already.

Elizabeth appears first dazed, the glow of pleasure still lingering on her. Oh, what an excellent picture she makes: entirely crimson, breathless, sated. He studies every change on her face as the cloud of lust shakes off, and she comes back with a smile, her eyes gleaming in the dimness as they seek him. “How good you look.”

Darcy laughs, bewildered. He?—when she is the one looking like some goddess? “ _You_ look good.”

 _“Well,_ I also feel quite good.”

Damn his pride, that bloody thing, that soars at her soft, content sigh. “I am glad.”

He already is mad. Stark raving mad.

It is _not_ enough. Yes, they chat about Charlie—as if it were a mundane thing, chatting like this, he all crumpled up between her bare thighs, and she, flushed and half naked—in a postcard apartment with tiny lights hanging from the ceiling. It is pleasant, oh so pleasant. And nowhere enough for him.

Will she now stand, smile, thank him and shoo him away?

A laugh pulls him from his panic. “Make yourself comfortable, then.”

Dear God, it is wrong.  Even his heart twists in protest in his chest. Not only this is a matter of physical tension—and he _is_ tensed, he is godawfully tensed—but there is something else. He thinks it is just her, like this, wild and grinning and bright, that he longs for. Darcy wills a smile. “I am quite comfortable here.”

Again, that delighted, lovely laugh of hers—it is that, he thinks in panic. It is intoxicating.

“Are you, now?”

His knees ache and his back is stiff, but if he were given a choice, he would never move from that spot. Yes, he would spend all his days bent between her legs and see her pleasure, if he could. “Yes,” he croaks out finally, turning his head to scatter desperate kisses her skin.  “Yes, you are soft.” His tongue dares to catch a wet spot. “And sweet.”

The slight movement of her legs, now under his palms, coaxes him to her again.

This time, he cannot find it in himself to act with gentleness and tenderness. Desperation drives him forth to seek more and more, as if his sanity depended on her pleasure alone, and dove in her warmth with his aching back bent, fingers bruising and greedy on her skin.

That works too on her. Her voice breaks and his name ripples from her as her back arches.

 _His_ name, God have mercy, it’s his name on her lips as pleasure takes over her mind.

Darcy tears away from her, his heart hammering in his throat. “Elizabeth.”

She looks at him.

“Elizabeth,” he says again, his voice a choked and pathetic sound to his own ears. “May I kiss you?”

Surprise spreads on her face for a single moment, as if she were not quite understanding the question. But it is truly a heartbeat, and soon, her arms spreads to welcome him, and she is _laughing,_ a delighted, warm sound to his ears, and then, she is clinging his body, and yes, _yes,_ she is kissing him.

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

After that first kiss, it all blends into a soft haze.

Darcy becomes lost in her arms and lips and Elizabeth seems lost in her orgasms.

Elizabeth is happy to let his fingers do the job, and he is thankful, because moving away from her mouth may prove to be difficult. It is becoming quite and addiction, to him. He swallows her moans and tastes her sighs, and breaths her in, until her body is sated and quiet and still and her mouth curls into a serene smile.

Yet, she does not squirm away. No, she pulls him with her on the couch, and holds onto him tightly and kisses him again and again. He simply cannot resist when she sighs against, and her hand clasps his to not-so-subtly guide him back to her skin. This time, he is happy to return to her with his mouth again, forgetting kisses in favour of her delicate, slick flesh.

When the haze of lust is gone, he thinks maybe he should have resisted.

Later, Darcy finds himself with a warm Elizabeth curled at his side, under a heavy blanket. His mind, free from the enchantment of her kisses and the warmth of her arms, snaps to clarity. Oddly, reality crashes in when Elizabeth’s belly grumbles angrily.

He should go and leave her, but out of nowhere, she is jumping about nervously, ranting about food and the lack of, offering to get a kebab or whatever as reward for his service, because he has been _so kind._ His stomach churns in sheer disgust.

What a fool he has been. Why has ever agreed to this madness in the first place?

“I’m sorry,” he says at length, looking away from her, so vibrant and ruffled. The lights on the ceiling now seem to be too bright. “Thank you for your kind offer, but I should go. I’ve been imposing on you too much, I fear, and I am hardly presentable now.”

“No!” she insists. “Not imposing, that’s not true! And, you’re so handsome, you’re perfectly presentable—”

Is she serious now? “No.” He begrudgingly gestures at his lap. “I am not.”

“Well then, that’s an issue that can be solved without much trouble.”

She is too damn close now. There is a hand crawling dangerously close, aiming for his tight. “For God’s sake!” When he notes the disappointment tainting her lovely face, he gives a long sigh. “I am only human, Elizabeth. It’s difficult,” he admits, hiding behind his palms. “I don’t understand what’s going on, what’s got into me that led me here.”

“You took pity on me,” she says, so, so gently. “You may not like gratitude, but I’m going to offer it anyway, because you’re such a good, kind guy.” Her hand touches his chest, and she may even feel his mad heart drummingthere. She then leans closer, lips brushing his jaw. “Let me…”

He lets her—God, it is oh so wrong, but he lets her, because he is _only_ human, weak in flesh and heart, much he has tried to convince himself otherwise.

In a matter of seconds, her hand is wrapped around him, her touch warm and gentle and just perfect.

Her mouth presses to his ear, whispering, “Tell me what you like.”

With an agonised groan, he turns to her and his head falls helplessly on the slope of her shoulder. “You’re perfect,” he mutters. “You’re perfect, Elizabeth.”

With that, he crushes his mouth against her in a sort of desperate, greedy kiss, because that what he is, that is how feels, desperate and hungry and greedy for her.

He falls on the couch, bringing her with him, seeking to be closer, always closer. “It’s no gratitude I want,” he admits, wild and lost. “Everything I did—it was for you, only for you. I can’t bear to see you unhappy. Oh, _Elizabeth._ ”

And she, she so kindly reaches for him again, her caresses purposeful and determined. Honestly, it will not last, but he does not care. His arms haul her to him again, and his mouth madly seeks her. Like that, wrapped in the perfection that are her touch and kiss, he is soon quivering under the sheer strength of his pleasure, shuddering and holding her to him like a madman, until all he can do is wildly gasping against her skin.

The intensity of his release leaves him boneless and limp and lost, eyes and chest heavy. Robbed of breath. Of sanity.

Darcy opens his eyes.

“Well, look at you,” Elizabeth says and grins, stroking his hair. “Now, it wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“No, definitely not,” he has to admit, but there is that melancholy, _again_. It is so strong, so deeply etched in his bones, that the hazy bliss is crushed under its wave. Oh, what a royal fool he is. “The bad thing, Elizabeth, is that I still love you. I am only human, I can only bear so much. It was wonderful, but so very bad for me.”

There it is.

He has spent months sternly commanding himself to resignation. Months gone in ignoring heartache and crushing hopes, and yet, he has gladly walked in her apartment, kneeling between her legs, with the conviction that it was enough. If she was eager for a sexual relationship with him, so was he.

Except, _no_ , he is not.

This will never, ever be enough. He freely admits he is a selfish man. He desires her body, he wants to please her, but without her heart—wants _her,_ all of her, no chops and bits.

His knuckles brush some errant tears from her cheek. “I am sorry,” he says, hoarsely, “I can’t change how I feel. I’m afraid I can’t promise you more of this, not if I wish to keep my heart intact.”

Elizabeth bursts out into loud sobs and hiccups and flings herself to him, her arms winding forcefully around his neck. Hot, burning tears fall, keep falling.

Darcy feels helpless. “Elizabeth—”

“For God’s sake!” she mutters, voice muffled, and he thinks she might strange him. “Do you think I’m so horny and desperate to—to do stuff like this only for the sake of it?”

“Well, there’s certainly nothing wrong—”

“Shut up!” she cries, and moves from him. “I don’t, you know! There’s a reason why I brought _you_ here, and let _you_ do stuff—and it’s—it’s you, _you_.”

Oh, his poor heart. It twists and hammers, and clutches at the hope, but it is impossible, hope is a bloody, tricky thing—

But she is laughing and crying, half naked, ruffled and dirty and happy, and it is all so perfect, because she says, “It’s because I love you, of course.”

“Oh.”

“Yes!” she cries, sniffling. “ _Oh_ ! _”_

She kisses him again and again, but there is too much laughter going on. In the end, Darcy cannot help it, and he, too, laughs.

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

The new day brings a finger tapping on his nose.

He opens his eyes to a very disheveled, but grinning, Elizabeth. “Time to wake up, Snow White.”

“Elizabeth?”

“No,” she sings and leans down to kiss the top of his nose. “It’s Prince Charming.”

He hums, face pressing into an impossibly soft pillow. “What time is it?”

“Time to call that dumbass cousin of yours. Can I use your phone?”

When he assents with a whiny murmur, she springs from the bed, leaving him to the temptation of sleep. His legs and back ache, but it is tolerable when he lays on his stomach.

Actually, it is tolerable in general, because his mind reminds _why_ his muscles ache in the first place.

Good God, she has tired him out.

It is some minutes before she returns, and he is not entirely awake, but can clearly hear: “It’s not Big D, you asshole, it’s Lizzy.”

She waltzes back in the tiny bedroom—where the hell does she find the energy for that?—gloriously naked save for a blanket on her shoulders. “Don’t worry, I took good care of him.”

By the time she jumps back in bed, the drowsiness is gone. He spies on her, as the bright, light of the day makes her skin glimmer and her hair glossy. _Oh,_ that cheeky smile.

Elizabeth slumps against the headboard. “You can imagine what’s happened—I murdered him, dumped his body in a trash can and stole his phone. That, or slept with him and stole his phone anyway.”

Darcy is positive that his face is stupidly red.

“What the fuck was that, Colonel?” she asks in a sweet tone, and long, bare legs kick the sheets. “Trying to catfish poor horny girls in Meryton? For your cousin? _Really?_ ”

Darcy rises on his elbows, nudging her gently, and firmly tries to ignore the red, cute marks on her thighs, chest, neck—oh, Lord, he literally _ate_ her after the Kebab.

With a sly grin, Elizabeth moves the phone from her ear. Her thumb presses on the screen and the Colonel’s annoying, smug voice raises from the speaker:

“Look, you don’t even know how grumpy and insufferable your lover boy’s been these months. Someone had to take the situation in hand and do something.”

“Well,” Elizabeth says, “Taking situation in hand _and_ mouth helped with the grumpiness, I think.”

Darcy groans. _“Elizabeth!”_

The Colonel barks out a laughter. “Damn, well done! See, no need to get angry at me, everyone’s got their happy ending. You should thank me.”

“There’s time for that later, first you must tell me what the hell was going in that empty head of yours when you wrote the ad and sent it to the Meryton Local.”

“I only was doing my cousin a great service.”

“So, did you hope I’d be the one to contact you? Did you _know_ it was me?”

“Hell _no!_ I did hope you’d fall for that, but—the chances were very low, weren’t they? I found out who Libbie was when I actually saw you yesterday. My only hope was to throw a horny girl to Darcy and hope for the best.”

“And you look for her in _my_ town.”

“And _you_ answered my ad so…”

“So,” Elizabeth says laughingly, “you did it, I guess.”

“I was already planning on signing him up on Tinder next—saved me some pain in the ass! Now, out with it, Lizzy. Gimme the details. Did he cry afterwards?”

“Bye, Colonel.”

“Hey—”

“Have a nice day!”

And with that, Elizabeth hangs up and puts his phone away. Darcy lets out a vexed sigh. “Was it necessary?”

She turns to him with the morning sunshine in her smile. _“Yes!_ And I told Charlotte too!”

“Oh, God.”

She slips back on the pillow, facing him. Like this, her hair is messy and wild, falling on a scrunched up face. “I’m allowed to gloat, okay? I spent _months_ pining for you, I earned that!”

“I pined for more than one year.”

“This is not a competition!” she huffs. A leg tangles between his, and a arm sneaks around him. She shifts closer, always closer, and seeks his eyes, her own shadowed. “But, if it were, I suppose you’d win. I am so sorry, Darcy, I was—”

“It’s okay,” he says, brushing his nose against hers. “I’m very, very happy with things as they’re now.”

She seems to let the subject drop, and instead presses her mouth to his in a lazy, slow kiss. “Are you tired?”

He hums against her mouth.

“Oh, no, no, that’s bad!” She beams like the sunshine, lips pink as spring. “What will be of you when it’s time to explore all my kinks?”

“I’ll die as a happy man, I suppose.”

But, for all the talk, Elizabeth is perfectly happy to cuddle. While sex has been so, so good, this—this _is_ wonderful. Skin to skin, like this, he can hear, he _feel_ her every breath. He can _just_ kiss her and taste her sighs. He can murmur words in her ear and touch her blushes.

She stretches against his side. Lazy fingers trace paths on his chest. “Now, important talk. Should I leave you saved as Pussy Eater Express in my phone?”

“No.”

“Dick Express?”

“I feel like a replacement for your vibrator.”

“And aren’t you happy?”

“I hope I am better than it.”

“Well, you’re more adorable. And hotter.” There is that lovely slyness in her eyes, but her cheeks are painfully crimson. “You know, I think Pussy Eater Express is fitting for you.”

“And _Fitzwilliam_ isn’t?”

“Well, it’s pretentious as hell so yeah, but—will you come to eat me out when I call? Will thou promise to be bound to eating only my pussy for the rest of your life?”

Darcy laughs. “I will.”

“No more ads on local newspapers?”

“Oh, bloody hell,” says on a sigh, burying his whole face in her hair. “No. _”_

_“Good.”_

 

*   *   *   *   *

 

_[13:08] Colonel Dumbass wrote: So, you’re welcome_

_[13:09] Colonel Dumbass wrote: Not that you or your girlfriend thanked me_

_[13:17] Colonel Dumbass wrote: Really? Bloody ingrates_

_[13: 37] Colonel Dumbass wrote: No answer? You at it again?_

_[13: 43] Colonel Dumbass wrote: Are you still grumpy?_

_[13:45] Colonel Dumbass wrote: If not even getting in Lizzy’s knickers can do the trick, nothing can, I swear_

_[14:07] You wrote: Shut up._

_[14:07] You wrote: But thank you._

_[14:11] Colonel Dumbass wrote: Damn right._

_[14:16] You wrote: Never do that again though. I will not kill you. Lizzy will._

 

*   *   *   *   *

end.


End file.
